He Was the Moon
by Endoh
Summary: "Leave my dreams as you've left my life." But he couldn't, he wouldn't, he hadn't. He was the Moon, but so was she. And in the light of the Moon and the cover of dreams, he went to her. —SasuSaku, DarkFic, NC17—
1. New

_There's a reason I chose to title this fic "He Was the Moon" rather than_ _"_ _He Was Pretty Okay, I Guess." ;)_

 _The tone and style of this fic won't be for everyone, so no worries if that's the case for you._ _S_ _ounds weird, but it's intended to be read slowly._ _I think listening to the suggested song really adds more to it, or it did while I was writing. Finally, a quick look into the phases of the moon could be helpful. Hope you enjoy it!_

–

Rating: NC17 (Extremely dark themes, explicit sexual content)

POV: Limited omniscient / third person

Jukebox: "Lost" by _Red_ / "The Diary of Jane" (acoustic version) by _Breaking Benjamin_ ; the acoustic version might require some searching, but it's damn beautiful.

* * *

–

"He Was the Moon"

Chapter One: New

新月

–

She was a ninja, a shinobi since the age of twelve, but she never looked the part: she was always too delicate, too much of a distressed damsel. Yet she had become strong. She pushed her mind and body until she became a master healer and proud kunoichi. Though she gained respect through her hard work and skill, there was one who had never acknowledged her—the one she wanted more than _any_ other to see her true strength.

 _But he'll never see me,_ she told herself, _b_ _ecause he'll never come back._

Every day she thought of him. Every day she wanted to help him know love again. Every day she wanted to heal him as only she could. Every day she wanted to breathe life into him, to make him feel alive again.

 _But I'll never have the chance…._

On that Moonlit night all those years ago, she had spoken to him of loneliness like she knew it….

She had grown to know it since: there was nothing worse than solitude, for when one was truly alone, the mind was free to travel to the furthest galaxies, the deepest depths of any ocean, the most barren of deserts, the highest of stars, and—of course—the fiery pits of one's own personal, inexorable hell.

–

She had a routine because having a routine meant no surprises. Having a routine meant things were orderly; having a routine meant she wouldn't have to face new ( _painful_ ) things. Having a routine meant she had control of one god damn thing in her fucking life. It gave her a sort of flimsy stability (yet it didn't).

Her nightly routine was a multipart ritual: returning to an empty house after training, a hospital shift, a mission; not thinking about him; picking at a silent dinner; not thinking about him; washing the dishes; not thinking about him; locating a change of clothes; _not_ thinking about him; stripping down to take an icy shower in a (forever-failing) attempt to numb herself, to just end her pain for a moment; _NOT_ thinking about him; stepping under the pelting, freezing water; _NOT_ fucking thinking about him; compressing her fists into tight balls; digging her sharp nails into her giving skin; attempting to feel only the continuous current of sanguine flowing over her hands; wanting to focus only on the way her knuckles blanched from the strain; _NOT FUCKING THINKING ABOUT HIM;_ desperately trying to disband the memory of that Moonlit crest as he strode away; frantically attempting to cease the rivers gushing from her eyes; **NOT FUCKING THINKING ABOUT HIM** ; clawing so desperately at the shower tiles as she collapsed under the harsh, spurting water; leaving bloody-red evidence of her failure to **NOT FUCKING THINK ABOUT HIM** in the form of infinitely long, incarnadine stripes; sinking her teeth into a white knuckle to finally scream nonsense, release her great, ridiculous sobs of anger, self-loathing, guilt, sorrow, and heartbreak (that no one cared to hear); dragging her knees to herself; gripping them in her bloodied, red hands (so sickly fitting); ultimately silencing herself and letting only her tears escape; climbing out of the glacial shower; not thinking of him; throwing her naked, soaking body on her bed, shredded palms to be healed tomorrow (because she secretly enjoyed—loved, couldn't get enough of—feeling the only fucking proof that she was still alive pouring out of her; because she _needed_ to feel the pain she knew so damn well she deserved); finally giving in to her thoughts about him, relenting to another nightmarish yet dreamless night.

–

It was any other day in her village, as she stumbled home from her medical aide mission. And, as always, she followed her routine, allowing her aching body to yield to the tempting thoughts of _him_. Only this time, she had done more damage to her hands than usual. The irregular amount of physical pain was adding too much to her overload of agony, so she succumbed, crumpling her stiff, red fingers and allowing her chakra to seep out through the pads of her fingertips. She snorted at herself in bitter amusement.

 _To be wholly incapable of healing the wounds that matter—how useless medicine is! How useless_ I _am…_

It was just too ridiculous, and she couldn't control her outburst. But her laughter quickly corroded to the opposite, and her hot tears lulled her into a black, motionless state she had grown to call _sleep_.

–

And he was there, sitting stoically on her windowsill; he was there as plainly as the big, blinding Moon behind him, silvery shadows cavorting across his pale features, illuminating them in the most ethereal, godly way. His long, midnight locks merged perfectly into the night sky, but his skin! Oh, his skin—it shone so brightly, so beautifully that he must have been crystalline, a solid diamond before her. The exterior of his long body was so unreal and angelic, but his shadowy, stone eyes! They held such suffering and fire and hate and passion and sanguinary intent! Yet he sat in a tranquil posture: a knee propped up on the sill, the matching elbow resting atop it.

He just stared. She just stared.

He made no move. She made no move.

And then he smirked; when his lips crooked into that deadly gesture, her breath left her body behind in the dust. Her spine lifted her shoulders mechanically as a hand clutched thin sheets to her breast, instinctually anchoring herself to this world. She blinked at him, gasping silently.

His smirk grew. Her disbelief grew.

And then she stopped blinking, stopped for the fear of winking it all away.

But he vanished.

A choked, silent scream; a limb extended in longing.

 _No…!_

But he gracefully, elegantly reappeared in front of her with a gentle gust to tousle his hair, crouching before her, smirking as a single rivulet followed gravity's will down her white cheek. She inhaled a ragged breath at his proximity. A long, marble finger as cold as ice followed the wet trail to her chin before sweeping it away, leaving a searing trail of steaming frost in its wake. She shook. Her disbelieving eyes widened, widened until they were the same as the Moon. His crooked smile lifted upward again.

… _I've finally lost it. I'm crazy._

His expression showed he could read her thoughts.

 _I_ am _insane…._

And then she was angry, angrier than she had been in years.

 _I'm crazy? I'm fucking crazy?!_

And she resorted to her lovely habit: she made a move to tear her (forever) sharp nails into her palms. But he was too fast for her—always had been and always would be. He caught her frozen fingers in his and shook his head with a mocking grin so much worse than those years before.

And she glared at him, glared at him for all she was worth. Then that same, bizarre laughter resurfaced. _What a terrible hallucination this is! …And I've fucking had enough._ "Let go," she hissed, fighting hysteria. "Vanish!" She attempted to rip her hands from his steel (yet gentle), burning grip and failed. _I could shatter his bones like ceramic if I wanted…. So why…?_ Her voice was a venomous whisper: "I said, _let go_ , damn it! _Vanish_!"

And he did. He was gone as silently as he had come.

Silent screams took her. She brought her quaking hands to her face and pulled viciously at her hair, her eyes stricken, wide, and wet. Her body constricted and crumpled as gravity felled her once more.

Her trembling lips formed the words, "No…no…no…no…no…no…" The near-silent utterances reverberated in her mind, creating deafening echoes of impossible volume. "...No...no...no..."

Again, she had lost him.

As always, she was lost in him.

* * *

 _So I've been away from this site and_ Naruto _in general for quite a while. I recently got all sentimental about_ Naruto _and decided to go out on a limb here and give "HWM" and_ Damned and Damask _(and maybe a few of my other deleted fics…?) another shot. So if there are a few people finding themselves thinking, "Wait a minute! This fic seems pretty familiar…."—you've got an epic memory!_

 _Now I'd like to ask your thoughts on "HWM"! Worth my revisiting the other chapters and finishing it up, or just leave it be?_ _"HWM"_ _started off as an extremely long oneshot but grew into a short story as I was writing it, so the chapters would be relatively concise. We're talking_ _about five or six chapters—maaaybe a few more (still short story length). This is probably my all-time fave of the fics I wrote way back when (mainly due to the_ crazy-different _style I can run with here…and the ending), so I hope you guys like it too!_

–

 **Your thoughts and opinions are appreciated, so I hope you will take the time to review.**

 **XOXO**

 **Endoh**


	2. Crescent

Happy Tuesday! Fun fact: I posted the original "He Was the Moon" all the way back in June of 2008—almost ten years ago! So it blows my mind that a few people actually remembered this little fic…. :') Thank you for brightening my day with your reviews and messages. Now please allow me to darken yours…. ;)

–

 _The tone and style of this fic won't be for everyone; sounds weird, but it's intended to be read slowly. I would like to reiterate one last time: this story is dark_, _and it contains sexually explicit material. You've been warned_. _It started off as an extremely long oneshot but grew into a short story as I was writing it. I think listening to the suggested song really adds more to it, or it did while I was writing. Finally, a quick look into the phases of the moon could be helpful._

Jukebox: "Already Over" by _Red_

* * *

–

"He Was the Moon"

Chapter Two: Crescent

弦月

–

She lost track of time and space after he became the night.

Eventually, she recovered some of her cognizance, blinking her swollen, tormented eyes, and slowly declared herself freed of her first nightmare of him. She tried to stop herself, to stop her thoughts, but she no longer had the fight left in her.

He…had been older. It made sense, of course: he _was_ older (wherever the hell he was); they both were. Her mind had simply made appropriate modifications…but her imagination had outdone itself, truly. This dreamy depiction of him had grown even more handsome, so tall, so _virile_ …. It was impossible for her to picture him any differently now.

Her dim yet curious ruminations went cold.

 _Why? Why does even my subconscious insist on torturing me?! Now he even has me questioning my sanity! Do I not get enough during the day?! Is it not enough he's all I think about when I'm awake?! Now he has to invade my dreams, my supposed_ haven _!_

But he had always invaded everything she could consider hers—her heart, her mind, her dreams, her soul, her life—all taken (or soon to be).

–

The next day, she did what was expected of her. She didn't pretend her life wasn't a freezing hell filled with icy acrimony and heated ire, but, as a chunin, she completed her mission without fail. She'd be damned if she'd let anyone else question her lucidity (no matter how much she did…), so she did her job without complaint, maintained a level façade. But on that medical aid mission, she finally accepted a long-ignored offer; she made a fortuitous, momentous discovery: alcohol, she found, could soothe as much as it stung. One or two measured drinks per evening helped keep her pieces together, acted as a sort of (astringent) putty or glue. So many of her fellow shinobi required that same tonic to ease them into somnolence, that same soporific salve…. And she was well-trained, after all; she would know the appropriate dosage….

So after her grueling, month-long mission concluded, she returned to her empty apartment, needing nothing more than a fucking hour of _restful_ sleep (but knowing it was impossible). She sloshed some pilfered sake in a mug and drank deep, letting the warm tendrils of liquor manipulate her flesh and mind (much like _he_ did). At least she could finally attend to her ritual, could finally offer her blood to the Moon, without fear of intrusion or discovery.

And it felt sickly _refreshing_ to complete the solemnity after being unable to for so damn long. Weeks and days and hours and minutes and seconds of withholding her tears had left her shaken and in need of release. She had been deprived of her only form of liberation for an entire month, and it left her at wit's end (if she hadn't been there already…). She fell into restless unconsciousness, relieved that she had gone an entire month without _him_ haunting her in the few hours she had once thought to be free (but she was never free—not of him at least).

–

But not this time: he was there—oh, he was there, just as he had been there on the last full Moon, and she felt him. Her eyes whispered, _Drop dead_ as they shot daggers into his stygian pools. Yet they still managed to translate her love for him, so minutely….

He tossed her a drop-dead beautiful smirk in return, but she resisted his hex.

"Leave my dreams as you've left my life," she murmured darkly, and then she smiled. "I suppose there's no point trying to direct a nightmare. I'll just have to wait the damn thing out…. Shit. I _am_ crazy. So, _so_ crazy…" She spoke more to herself than the man sitting in her window.

He remained still.

She laughed aloud. "Oh? Are you supposed to be symbolic? Is that it?" Her caustic grin fell to a grimace. "Mother-fucking dreams," she ground out, and then she flashed him a crooked smirk to match his own.

 _I have outwitted you, my cruel hallucination. Pain has never solved any of my problems before…but_ this _one…._

She made a barely perceptible move to rake her nails against the palm hidden below the covers. But he stopped her as he had previously, appearing before she could even notice his absence from her line of sight. And she didn't have the chance to try anything else because his hands were on her, his eyes gouged into hers, his lips lifted into his perfect smile, and she was caught up in him—just as she had and always would be.

Long, cool fingers airily traced her features, and she wanted to recoil, to retreat, yet she could not; she was frozen under his boreal yet scorching touch. She could only tremble slightly as his hands drifted worshipfully over her divested body, just barely touching her at all. What those grazing fingers did to her, leaving prickling mountains of goose bumps! It wasn't fair for her to react in such away with just the touch of his hands!

The dream was becoming too much for her, and her teeth caught her lip, her eyes widened in such great fear—her life hadn't been this _real_ , this substantive in so long! Yet it was a dream, something her murky mind had conjured up! She hadn't felt anything other than a medley of anger and pain and guilt in so many months that even _fear_ was welcome. The fear of becoming _attached_ to something—attached to a _dream_ or a _hallucination_ or whatever the fuck this was! He had long ago taught her bonds and attachments brought only more agony to one's life, and being bonded to a flighty _hallucination_ was certain to bring her more turmoil.

But his thumb… Just that one simple digit…

He shook his head in admonition and cradled her face in his capable hand, his thumb landing on her red mouth to release her bottom lip from its sharp trap with the smallest _pop_. He held her Moonlit gaze, his face mere inches from hers, as he swept that finger slowly, softly across her barely-parted lips. Millimeter by millimeter, grazing the ident left in trepidation, before folding her bottom lip down…just enough to sample the wetness of her mouth. A small, shuddering moan escaped around that white fingertip before it descended with the rest, his knuckles leisurely gliding down her neck.

The shaky thrum of her vocal cords startled her from her stupor.

 _What the fuck am I doing?! This isn't_ real _, this isn't_ him _!_

Yet what was reality compared to this…? What _good_ had reality done her?

Still, she found the strength to wrench her head jaggedly back and forth, but she could not control the streams of water breaking through her eyelashes. And he charily wiped her tears all away, flashing that despicably cocky (yet so beautiful and radiant) grin of his as he did so. Her fury filled her again, and she welcomed it warmly, allowing her wrath to spurt out of her unhindered, letting the calefaction of lust and longing become hot rage.

She spoke gravely: "Touch me again, and I will snap your wrist in two. Get out. Get _the hell_ out." Suddenly, unexpectedly despondent, she breathed: " _Get out._ Get out of my dreams, get out of my life!" She begged with all the desperation of a shattered heart: "Let me forget you! _Please_ … Just _let me forget everything_!"

And for a split second, his deep, dim pools held a tiny flicker of his familiar fire, and his grin increased in luminosity.

Then she longed for him, for him to touch her again, to feel his arctic (yet sweltering) grasp anywhere on her. "No," she whispered as he stood from her bed. "…I-I'm sorry! _C-come back_!" But he was already out the window, fleeing into the midnight of her dream/hallucination.

She fell back into her cold bed, utterly defeated, empty.

"I'm so damn stupid. I'm a fucking idiot!" A sob choked her. "Stupid and insane and _responsible_ …" The last word she uttered devastated any feeble dam she had constructed, and the water flowed from her eyes unhindered. "It's all my fault…my fault…my fault…." Her spent eyes closed once again to that guilty mantra. The darkness was reaching for her. "I'm sorry," she whispered to the night, to the Moon, "I'm sorry for letting you slip away from me, my love…."

* * *

 _I know this style isn't everyone's cup of tea, so thank you very much for reading! It's certainly not my usual style. Hope you enjoyed the first spark of the slow burn. The burn and the pace pick up in Chapter 3._

 _Half the fun of posting here is getting to hear from readers and improve, so I hope you'll take the time to leave some feedback / share your thoughts! The other half of the fun being, of course, getting to play with your favorite characters. ;)_

–

 **XOXO**

 **Endoh**


	3. Quarter

Hope you enjoy the flicker of the slow burn in the dark….

–

Jukebox: "Already Over, Part Two" by _Red_

* * *

–

"He Was the Moon"

Chapter Three: Quarter

半月

–

The next day, she called in sick to the hospital, and she _was._ She wasted the day away in bed, staring out her window, her window to the Moon, no matter if the angle of the sun blinded her. There was simply no evidence of his having been in her home, and it made her ill.

 _Of course not! It was a fucking dream!_

But it felt so _real_! More like living than life itself!

She wanted to talk to somebody, wanted to share her secret, silent pain with someone, but how could she, if even _she_ feared she might be going mad…. This was far beyond her best friend's comprehension; her teammate was probably in another country; her sensei had left her in the care and tutelage of another; her mentor would insist on her taking a break from her missions and duties, insist on taking away her only meaningful distractions….

It really hit her then. She (ironically) hadn't noticed it before, from the haze in which she had existed since he left. But she finally broke through the veil and realized what she had long since overlooked:

 _I am alone._

(Just like him.)

She had but one reason to keep on living.

(Just like him.)

 _I hate you! I hate you! I fucking hate you more than the life you made for me or…anything else!_

But it was a lie, as was her life.

 _I love you! I love you! I fucking love you more than life or myself or…anything else…._

And _that_ was the truth, the sad truth. From an outsider's stand point, her thoughts were incredibly contradictory; to her, though, they were absolute….

She gritted her teeth. It had been _years_ since he had last personally hurt her, but there he was, attacking her passively through her nightmares!

"That's _it_! I won't let him do any more to me!"

Defiance tasted good.

And she got up, raked a comb through her dull hair, washed her wan face, and actually _ate breakfast_. She hadn't done those simple things in so long…. She just hadn't cared enough. _He_ wasn't there, so why waste time brushing her hair or washing her face in the morning? _He_ wasn't there, so why attempt to feed herself? _He_ wasn't there, so the world could just take her as she fucking was. _He_ wasn't there, so the world could take what she could fucking give it.

 _I won't let you interfere with my life anymore, my love._

She rushed off to the hospital with a new, roaring determination to regain control over her life. And she did: she felt nothing at all for four weeks.

Nothing.

At.

All.

She had lived through _twenty-eight days_ without any pain, without thinking of him! She hadn't left red Crescents in her palms, she hadn't shed a single tear. She had slept at night, she had even eaten! …But she was numb to the world, utterly insensate. And she couldn't decide if she loathed her previous state of ceaseless nociception or her present state of perpetual deadness more.

Was there a preference to be had, could one be "preferable" to the other…?

People who didn't truly see her thought she was all better, finally back to normal! But those like her mentor recognized a step they had taken in their own grieving and knew she was _far_ from better. Even if she was no longer so gaunt, even if her hair had more luster, even if her skin no longer appeared as translucent….

 _No, no,_ no _!_

Without warning, the pain was coming back. Her body went rigid. Thoughts of _him_ were coming back. She had willed herself to forget, begged her mind to wander, but she _couldn't_ forget the sick anniversary. It had been exactly twenty-nine days since her Lunatic dream had last invaded her mind, and she decided it was the Moon's fault. Seeing the Moon reminded her of him.

 _Because he was the Moon._

Solid.

 _Strong_.

Pale.

 _Devastatingly beautiful_.

Untouchable.

 _Unreachable_.

Encased only by a halo of darkness.

 _Covered in craters, wounds of the past._

Never to be fully healed.

 _Only to be further mottled and marred._

Surrounded by bright lights longing to illuminate his constant Umbra.

 _But unable to touch those radiant stars._

…

…

…

He was the Moon, but so was she.

…

…

…

It was the Moon causing her insane dreams—that was it. That _had_ to be it.

Her fingers reflexively curled inward, but she caught herself and frantically flung them out in a quaking, stiff fan.

 _No, damn it!_

Her fingers spasmed. She couldn't chance a meltdown in the shower, she couldn't chance falling back into her beloved routine….

She _would_ keep her vow. She would not allow him to interfere (not even in her nightmares). After all, she had prepared for this: she had acquired a silver bullet to keep the Moon at bay. She emptied the contents of a small bottle in her trembling hand, weighing (medically, scientifically, practically…) how many it would take to knock her out cold, to wave away any chances of dreams….

–

She felt him there; she didn't sense his presence sitting on her windowsill—no! She _felt_ his body on hers, his lips on hers, his hand twining with hers. She slowly unlidded her dazed, anesthetized eyes. He withdrew (for just a moment) to give her a handsome smirk, and she was dazzled by his charcoal depths, the way his face glowed. It wasn't fair how beautiful he was! It wasn't fair for any one man to be able to incite such lust in her! It wasn't fair that she should hate him for all the pain he caused her…yet all she could do was love him in that moment.

A strong hand slid up her bare thigh and under the loose, white shirt in which she slept, gliding over her cool stomach with natural grace. His air-soft lips gently drifted over her neck, constricting her breathing with the touch of a feather. She cried out softly and tilted her head back, begging for more of his awakening touch, begging to feel something again.

One month of unfeeling had left her drained, so she succumbed to her fear, her anger, her guilt, her lust, her love. She let the waves of emotions roll over her, yet she didn't drown as she had expected. She stayed gently afloat, hovering placidly above rage and hate and fright and blame. She would give to him whatever he asked, so long as he continued to bring life back into her veins. Years and months and weeks and days and hours and minutes and seconds of pain and the agony of _nothing_ had worn her.

 _A dream. Can I only feel alive in a dream…?_

The thought didn't quite hit her, just drifted serenely above her head, and she didn't care anymore. She just wanted to feel life again, and his hot touches seared her with _sensation_. He charily held himself above her to avoid crushing her petite frame. The way his lips caressed hers was so chaste, so delicate they wouldn't have broken the thinnest thread of silk, left a spider's web unmarred. He was far gentler than she remembered…but he _was_ in her dreams, after all.

Dreams, it occurred to her, didn't all have to be nightmares (or so she desperately hoped).

She kissed him back, but so tentatively, so faintly, for she thought the slightest movement would wake her into her nightmarish reality, would dispel her Moonlit dreamland. Her lips made another contact with his, and she couldn't help but deeply inhale his scent, a breath of life. She carefully wrapped an alabaster arm around his neck and brought him down on her again, threading her fingers through his dark hair. She tightened her grip on the hand around hers. She resisted allowing their mouths to collide for just a moment, but she disregarded whatever thought had stopped her and let their bodies meld, his long hair dusting her forehead and cheeks.

She hadn't been _touched_ in so long, let alone kissed (ever). But it felt so perfect, and she knew she was dreaming (but she didn't quite notice). He felt so natural and masterful above her, and she let him guide her lips with his until she found a soft, delicate rhythm to follow. She felt his tongue deftly flick across her bottom lip, and she parted for him with a low moan, reveling in the heat of his body. She traced her dainty fingers over her love's strong shoulders, imprinting her hallucination into her mind as well as she could.

He was taking everything so slowly, being so careful with her, savoring every second. It was (ironically) everything she had ever dreamed of, and she felt whole with his body pressed so closely to hers. He stroked her tongue with his as he put his weight on an elbow and cupped her cheek with his free hand, unhurriedly rubbing his thumb over her cheek bone, as if checking for evidence of tears. He pulled away just long enough for both of them to catch a quick breath and then descended on her body again. She felt so warm in his arms, so at _home_ in her own house for the first time in years.

 _Home is wherever he is,_ she realized.

He began to nibble ever so gently on her, and she became more confident in her explorations of his mouth. She traced his lips with curiosity and wonder, lovingly gliding over his tongue with hers. She could feel his groan resonating through his chest and into hers. She felt that deep sound _everywhere_ and pulled him closer.

She loved being kissed. She loved being held. She loved being caressed. She loved feeling another heartbeat on her. She loved simply being touched. She loved loving him.

And she just fucking loved feeling alive for the first time in so long.

And then came the grief—it had finally sunk it. A _dream_ —it was another _dream_. She knew such pure elation, joy, happiness, ecstasy would soon end. The tears came shortly after her realization that she was _dreaming_ , dreaming the bliss she felt!

And she kissed him fiercely.

 _Do you see what you do to me?!_ she thought. _Do you know?!_

Hoping enough heat could vaporize the tears, she arched her body into his and began to suck on his tongue and dig her nails into his scalp. She would take what he could fucking _give_ her.

But he bit on her lip, and a low growl rumbled from his throat in admonition as he tried to retreat from her embrace.

 _Why…?_

Crestfallen, deflated, she surrendered (as she always had) to his demands and allowed him to break their link. He lowered his cheek on her shoulder and breathed heavily on her neck before scattering more kisses along it. She panted out her own ragged breaths, nearly sobbing from her sudden onslaught of anguish. He rolled off her and to her side; he gently pulled her back to his hot chest and held her small body to him, his mouth leisurely roaming across her shoulder and down her bare arm.

He had refused to leave his genteel ways for passion…yet when she leaned into him, she could feel the hard manifestation of his desire pressing into her skin. In an instant, her tears ran dry and she turned in his arms to face him. If this was a dream…why couldn't she live a fantasy? She slowly placed butterfly kisses down his neck, sliding lower and lower down her sheets, further and further out of his arms, until she reached the white cotton divide of his yukata.

"Make me feel alive," she whispered on him as she spread the material to shed more Moonlight on his skin.

He stiffened and strained under her lips. She stopped and looked up to him; his face was serene perfection, but his eyes betrayed him. Those dark pools held a volatile medley of emotions she could not pinpoint. He closed them and slowly oscillated his head. Before she could object, he had pulled her back into his arms. He kissed her forehead and nestled her into him so she could feel his breath on her ear and the steady drumming of his heart, lulling her. And no matter how much she knew she should be angry or miserable or lustful or heartbroken or guilt-ridden, she closed her eyes in complete tranquility: he was there, she could _feel_ him there. But she opened them the next second, and he was gone.

In his place was the blinding sun.

* * *

 _Well, now you know where the title and the summary came from! Thank you for taking the time to read this fic and share your thoughts with me, I've really enjoyed reading your comments!_

 _We've glimpsed a little hint of that slow burn here, but next chapter edges into that NC17 rating…. ;)_

 _Finally, I've left a few clues in the first two chapters, but there's a slightly more noticeable one here. I wonder if anybody will spot them…. ;)_

–

 **XOXO**

 **Endoh**


End file.
